


Every Atom of This Summer on My Tongue

by 221b_careful_what_you_wish_for



Category: Call Me By Your Name (2017), Call Me By Your Name - All Media Types, Call Me by Your Name - André Aciman, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1980s, Alternate Universe - Book/Movie Fusion, Angst with a Happy Ending, Desire, Emotional Sex, Italy, Masturbation, Multi, POV Sherlock Holmes, Peaches - Freeform, Pining, Sensuality, Sexual Experimentation, Summer, Summer Romance, True Love, sexual awakening
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-22
Updated: 2017-12-22
Packaged: 2019-02-18 12:36:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 9,524
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13100268
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for/pseuds/221b_careful_what_you_wish_for
Summary: While vacationing at his family’s villa on the Italian coast, 18-year-old Sherlock finds himself attracted to John Watson, an older American graduate student working on his first novel. They fall into a passionate affair, desperately wishing their languid afternoons and sultry summer nights would never end.(Inspired by the novel 'Call Me By Your Name.' You don't need to have read the book or seen the film to enjoy this.)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Polski available: [Mam na języku każdą cząsteczkę tego lata](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15725073) by [Tulippa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tulippa/pseuds/Tulippa)



> I wrote this after reading the book, but without seeing the film; I’ve seen only the trailers and few early leaked snippets. This story was written in a spirit of love and admiration for the novel and for the two fictional universes that I blended together. Best of all, I got to add my own happy ending.

_**Italy, 1989** _

The summer heat was a living thing, palpitating, shimmering, relentless. Afternoons were devoted to listless napping or half-hearted reading in the shade of the pine trees near the pool, sometimes watching grainy television while lying stomach-down on the sofa under the apathetic ceiling fan.

Torpid. Oppressive. Boring.

It was the same every summer, and had been for each of Sherlock's 18 years. His parents, both successful novelists, led writing workshops in the sleepy Italian town where his mother’s family had roots. She had inherited her family’s villa, and now it was their annual summer destination and winter retreat. The perfect place for working holidays, his father always joked.

It may have been fine when he was a child, but as a young man Sherlock found the summers long and uneventful. His older brother no longer accompanied them to Italy; he hadn’t done so in years. That left Sherlock on his own, riding his bike, swimming, composing violin music.

He didn’t even know why he had come this year. He’d be heading off to Cambridge in the autumn; he could have stayed at home alone in England. But some sense of loyalty and duty had compelled him to make the annual journey with his parents. Or maybe it was a fear of loneliness.

The villa was rarely empty. Friends and neighbors dropped by for coffee or drinks or an afternoon swim in the deep blue pool. The table at lunch and dinner was always ringed with an international array of earnest students, some full of ego, others wracked with self-doubt. Intense conversations swirled around Character and Motivation and Subtext. Sherlock had grown immune to the dinner discourse years ago, fading into the background, absently peeling an orange and retreating into his own inner world.

He liked books, but he loved music and science more. He had gravitated toward chemistry during the last few years of his schooling, an interest that baffled his parents, though they supported his choice.

His only friend his age in town was Molly, whose family had started summering in the neighboring villa some five years ago. They sometimes swam in the cove together or rode their bikes into town for gelato. There had been a bumbling kiss two years ago, an awkward groping beneath bathing suits one drunken night on the beach, but it had been a mistake. It hadn’t felt right and he broke it off before it could begin, somehow salvaging their friendship.

At school there had been Victor, an exploratory relationship of hand jobs and blow jobs and fingering; last summer there had been Irene, a dark haired French beauty vacationing with her family. She preferred girls, she told him matter-of-factly, but she liked sex and she liked his face and her parents were gone and did he want to come up to her room?

Sometimes Sherlock judged the students with a critical eye, occasionally finding one mildly attractive. He did nothing about it, felt nothing strongly about it. Sometimes one of them would try to draw him into conversation or steer him away from the group for a private walk. He once let a student lead him into the grove of trees above the shore. He was a few years older, English, an aspiring playwright with rough hands and chapped lips. A bland disappointment.

His parents always hired a summer resident, usually a graduate student, to handle their correspondence, edit manuscripts, and run errands. In exchange, the resident received a modest stipend and the afternoons off to work on their own writing while his parents taught. They lived in the villa as part of the family and were always assigned the bedroom next to Sherlock’s with a shared bath across the hall. Sherlock lumped the residents in with the other students, nodding politely, saying good morning, showing them the book store and post office in town when they first arrived.

Despite being surrounded by sun-soaked beauty and creative minds, Sherlock still felt very much alone. He never knew quite how to break through and engage with the larger world, never quite knew where he belonged.

 

******************

The new resident arrived one clear afternoon, the heat tempered by a breeze from the sea. Sherlock learned out an upper window when he heard the car crunching on the gravel drive, watching dispassionately as a young man stepped out to oversee the unloading of his belongings.

“Great. Super,” the man said, clapping the driver on his back.

American accent. Brash.

Sherlock was about to turn away when something about the American made him linger a few moments more. It was the way he stood admiring the villa, a smile on his face. He removed his sunglasses, squinting against the light, and closed his eyes for a moment as if drinking in the sun. He looked… grateful.

Sherlock loitered in the background as his parents greeted their new visitor, asking about the flight, the train ride from Rome, was he hungry, thirsty? Sherlock was finally introduced by his mother.

“And this is our son. He’ll help show you around.”

The American turned to him, his sunglasses hooked above the button of his blue cotton shirt. He thrusted out his hand. “John Watson.”

“Sherlock.”

“Sherlock,” John repeated. “I like that name.”

John stood a few inches shorter than Sherlock. His handshake was firm, eyes navy blue, jaw square, hair sandy brown. The open collar of his shirt revealed a triangle of lightly tanned skin, a hint of dark chest hair. He was more than mildly attractive. John held Sherlock’s gaze a few seconds, then withdrew his hand.

“I’ll have you meet our housekeeper Maria and the other staff, then we’ll go out to the patio and have a drink.” His mother swept John away, leaving Sherlock standing with the bags at the foot of the stairs.

“Great.” John’s voice carried across the tile floor, then faded. The house felt empty again.

 

*******************

Everything was great. The stone stairs that accessed the beach, the bicycles, the cafe and cinema, the grassy spot by the pool. To John, everything was agreeable, a trait that Sherlock found tiresome but charmed everyone else.

The first few weeks, Sherlock furtively observed John over the top of his book or from the table in the shade where he worked on his studies or composed music. He wondered how John could stand to lie in the intense afternoon sun, shirt off, his skin turning golden brown, his hair becoming streaked with blonde.

Sherlock tended to avoid the sun, burning in a short time if he was not careful. The burn eventually calmed to a light brown with sprinkles of freckles across his cheeks and arms, which somehow seemed childish compared to John’s bronzed torso.

Sherlock found himself comparing his body to John’s more often than he cared to admit. Where he was lanky, John was solid; his own shoulders were narrow while John’s were broad.

As the days progressed, they traded details, learning fragments about one another.

John was 24 and had studied in New York, recently earning a Master of Fine Arts in writing. He had published several successful stories in literary magazines. He was now working on a novel that Sherlock had quickly (and perhaps unfairly) mentally categorized under the ‘‘distant father, angry son” genre. It only occurred to him later that perhaps it was a memoir.

He was able to glean little about John’s background. “I’m from the West Coast. Not the sunny part,” John had said cryptically, then changed the subject, asking about Sherlock’s plans of study at Cambridge.

Gradually, they fell into a routine. In the mornings, John assisted Sherlock’s parents while Sherlock went to the beach or on solitary bike rides. In the afternoons, they both worked by the pool, John chewing on a pen as he edited his pages, Sherlock scribbling on a composition.

Sherlock looked forward to their time together, finding a quiet companionship in the arrangement. And, if he was honest, he liked stealing glances at John, watching him swim or read, noticing how his shoulder blades curved when he turned onto his stomach to sun his back.

He idly wondered what John's chest felt like, how hard his thighs were, how soft the arch of his foot would be. His curiosity had slowly blossomed into desire. He couldn’t help but imagine how they might fit together, hip-to-hip, arms and legs entwined.

One day John exhaled loudly, tossing his manuscript to the side. Sherlock could feel John’s gaze on him, but he didn’t look up.

“Are you any good?”

The abrupt question startled Sherlock into glancing up. “What do you mean?”

“Music. The violin. I’ve never heard you play.”

“Do you know anything about music?”

John hesitated, a faint smiling playing on his lips. “No.”

“Then it’d be a waste of time.”

John’s mouth tightened and he looked away. Sherlock instantly regretted his rebuff and started over.

“You’ve heard of Bach, right?”

John glanced back at him. “Yeah. I have.”

Sherlock stood and walked into the house, knowing that John would trail after him. Sherlock retrieved his violin case from its spot in the sitting room. After a few moments of tuning, Sherlock tucked the instrument under his chin and closed his eyes, hearing the music, seeing the notes in his mind’s eye.

John sat on a wooden chair near the door, remaining at a distance as if not wanting to intrude. Sherlock began playing, focusing only on the music, not John’s rapt expression, not his hands resting on his knees, not his red bathing trunks and loose white shirt.

He played flawlessly, imbuing the piece with more emotion than he’d ever accessed before. It unnerved him, his hand shaking as he drew the bow down in its final stroke. He stood there, overwhelmed.

“Beautiful,” John said sincerely, looking at him with an unwavering gaze.

Sherlock’s face flushed and he turned to put the violin back in its case. “I’ve been playing music since I was six.”

John was still watching him. “You're a natural talent. I envy you.”

A current passed between them, something powerful that vanished as quickly as it appeared.

John stood, the muscles in his thighs flexing. “I’m going for a swim, if you want to come.”

Sherlock nodded wordlessly but did not follow. John, wet and glistening, droplets of water caught on his lashes, the flashes of dark hair under his arms when he stroked across the pool, the tender strip of pale skin below the waist of his trunks, would be too much.


	2. Chapter 2

John was frequently absent from lunches and dinners. Whether he was working, resting, or meeting someone, Sherlock did not know. When John did grace their table, women smiled at him and tossed their hair, looking at him from under their lashes. John accepted the attention with good humor, sometimes responding with flirtatiousness. Women touched his arm as they laughed, men clasped his shoulder as they told him stories. He was golden, glorious, the type of man women wanted to take to bed, the type men wanted to be in bed.

Sherlock stared at John from his distant corner of the table, not sure which way he felt about him. Did he want to sleep with John, or simply _be_ John, confident, assured, desired?

That night Sherlock dreamt about touching John, naked and breathless, of being touched in return, wanting him, all of him, inside of him. He woke with an erection he desperately finished off by rutting into the mattress, panting into his pillow.

He cleaned himself with tissues and got out of bed, unable to sleep. He wandered onto the balcony that was shared with John’s bedroom and leaned against the balustrade, staring out into the night, the tree branches sighing in the light breeze. A mosquito buzzed near his ear and he brushed it away.

He glanced at the French doors that led from the balcony to John’s room, hoping to see a light on, a glow from within. It was dark, silent. The dream lingered, haunting Sherlock with how real it seemed. He put his fingers to his lips, swearing he could feel the heat of John’s kiss.

 

*********************

Sherlock found himself leaving his balcony door ajar in the sultry afternoons and at night, hoping John would understand the silent invitation to slip into his bedroom unannounced, to join him in bed, to take him, completely and willingly, however he wanted.

He lay awake in the late hours, listening for John’s soft footsteps, imagining where he might have been, who he had been with, what they had done, masturbating to images of John with women, with men, a confusion of lust and jealousy and desire.

Sometimes they biked into town together when John had errands, and sometimes they jogged together in the early mornings. Running had always cleared Sherlock’s mind, and it seemed to do the same for John. They spoke very little, John letting Sherlock lead the way the first few times until he got the lay of the land.

One early morning instead of a jog, Sherlock offered to show John some ruins at the far edge of their property. John raised an eyebrow, intrigued.

They walked through the dewy grass, the sunlight slanting at a low angle.

“I used to go exploring when I was a child,” Sherlock explained. “I found the ruins one day and ran all the way back to show my father. He came back with me and we spent all afternoon looking around.”

They finally arrived at the site -- worn foundations, a set of sunken steps, heaps of rubble that once formed a simple villa and a stable.

“Amazing,” John said, placing his hand on a stone. “It’s so old.”

“Americans think everything is old,” Sherlock teased.

“Europeans think everything is far away,” John countered. They walked around, scuffing their feet at rocks, sometimes picking up a shard to inspect.

“You’re lucky to have grown up with this,” John said. “This place, the sea, the history. Your family.”

“What did you grow up with?”

John shrugged. “Arguments. And trees. Too many damn trees.”

“You don’t like trees?”

“I like the sun.”

Sherlock smiled, sitting on a low wall. “You know that’s what they call you, Maria and the others.”

John looked at him quizzically.

“Their nickname for you, _Signor Sole._ You’re always by the pool, sunning. And you’re exotic. _La California.”_

John laughed. “I’m not from California.”

“People want you to be.”

John picked up another stone and turned it in his hands. “I suppose Hollywood sounds more glamorous than a logging town in Oregon.”

Sherlock took a gamble. “What does your family think about your writing?”

John kept his eyes lowered. “My mom understands. She gets it. My dad… he thought it was a waste of time. Funny, coming from a man who screwed up everything he touched. Failed businesses, failed marriage…”

Sherlock noticed John spoke about his father in the past tense. “Is he still alive?”

“Nah. Died two years ago. Misjudged a curve, rolled his truck.”

“Drunk?”

“Yeah.”

Sherlock nodded quietly, not sure how to respond, so he said nothing. They eventually headed back to the house.

Outside on the patio, John thanked him for showing him the ruins, then added a thought. “I’m going into town tonight to meet some friends at the cafe. Do you want to come?”

Sherlock paused, surprised at how easily John used the word _friends_ , and that he would invite him to come along. He didn’t want to go, and yet he did.

“Molly will be there,” John added, sensing his discomfort. “You know her, right?”

“Yeah. Okay.”

John grasped him lightly on the upper arm, a touch that melded into a brief massage. “Great.”

 

*****************************

The balmy night seemed to draw every young person out of their house and to the town square where they sat at cafes smoking, drinking, laughing, flirting. John was surrounded by his friends, some of whom Sherlock recognized, others he didn’t.

“Hi, Sherlock.”

Sherlock looked up to see Molly. He nodded a hello and she moved further down the table and took a seat closer to John.

Sherlock smoked, watching John interact, smiling, doling out his attention magnanimously, making everyone feel special. It was like watching a magician work. Only Sherlock suspected there was any sleight of hand involved.

Despite all his charm and projected confidence, John was not a happy man. He was restless, unsettled, doubtful of his own talents. He had found a key to smoothing his way in the world, and it worked -- most of the time. This morning, some of that unhappiness had leaked out when he talked about his father.

Sherlock was beginning to understand John, seeing what others didn’t see. He wondered if John could see through him the same way. If John looked at him closely, he would find someone equally restless and unsettled, uncertain about so many things. But instead of charm, he covered his doubts with brusqueness.

John caught Sherlock’s eye across the table and they looked at each other for a long moment as if reading each other’s minds. A shrill laugh broke the connection, then someone suggested dancing at the disco across the square. A group immediately rose and left the table, leaving a few stragglers behind.

“Are you coming?” John asked Sherlock. Molly loitered near the fountain, her eyes on John.

“I don’t like dancing.” It was a lie. He loved dancing, but not here, not in front of John with all those people.

John waited a beat, about to say something. But then he nodded curtly. “Suit yourself.” He turned and draped a tanned arm around Molly’s shoulders, her arm snaking possessively around his waist.

Sherlock’s heart crumpled as he watched them disappear across the square, Molly’s hips swinging, their strides matched.

Sherlock made his way home and climbed the stairs to his room. The house was quiet, everyone asleep. He stood on his balcony again, fighting down the urge to scream at the sky. On an impulse, he turned the knob on John’s door and slipped inside his room, keeping the lights turned off.

He slid his fingers along the desk, across the wardrobe, opening the double doors to peer inside. A light dinner jacket, cotton shirts, and several pairs of swim trunks hung from wooden hangers. Sherlock reached out and brushed his hand along the shirts, memorizing their soft fabric, running his fingers reverently down his favorite, the blue one.

Suddenly tired, he sat on the edge of the bed, then slowly fell backward, lying with his back on the mattress. He turned his head, breathing in John's scent on the pillows and coverlet.

He stared at the ceiling, picturing Molly clinging to John’s shoulders, grinding her hips against his as the music thumped around them. Maybe John was fucking Molly right now, her legs wrapped around his waist.

Sherlock’s hand drifted to his groin, imagining John's weight pressing him into the mattress, humping him through their shorts, peeling off his shirt.

He was torturing himself.

Sherlock pushed himself off the bed and returned to the balcony, lighting up yet another frustration-fueled cigarette.

He was on his second smoke when he heard footsteps on the stairs leading to the balcony. He turned, surprised to see John. He was alone.

“You’re back early.” Sherlock’s observation came out as a growl.

“I have a headache,” John replied lightly, clearly fibbing. He stood next to Sherlock, leaning his forearms on the balustrade just as Sherlock was.

John reached over and lifted the cigarette from between Sherlock’s fingers and put it to his lips, taking a long drag. The gesture implied a certain familiarity and ease that made Sherlock’s pulse race.

“Where’s Molly?”

“With her friends.”

“I thought they were _your_ friends,” Sherlock challenged, taking the cigarette back, secretly relishing the moment his lips touched the moist end where John’s mouth had been seconds ago.

John shrugged. “I was feeling a little out of place. They’re young.”

“Most of them are my age.”

John slid a glance at Sherlock. “You seem so much older than them.”

Sherlock looked away, brushing off the comment with a joke. “Everything’s old to Americans.”

“Everything’s so far away to Europeans,” John returned with a smile. He lifted the cigarette from Sherlock’s hand again, slower this time, their fingers brushing. “Sometimes things are closer than you think, if you just take a chance.”

Their gazes locked and they fell silent, a wisp of smoke rising between them. For the first time, Sherlock didn’t look away, searching John’s face, wondering if he felt the same attraction, the same urges that he did. Were John’s words and actions a sign? A proposition? Or was he simply being charming, flirtatious, teasing?

John broke the gaze, throwing the cigarette butt to the ground and grinding it out with his heel.

“Good night, Sherlock.”

Sherlock watched John walk to his room, shutting the doors behind him.

He should have kissed him, Sherlock realized too late. He should have seized the moment and made a move, ending this back-and-forth tension. If John had pushed him away, fine. He would avoid him, and at least he would know where they stood. But if John had accepted his kiss, drew him in for more… then what?

 

***********************

Sherlock avoided John for several days, and it was only when John came to the beach for an afternoon swim that they were forced to talk again. The cove was empty, everyone one else resting in their bedrooms.

John sat beside him on the pebbly shore, his blue shirt open, his green swimming trunks on. Sherlock felt exposed, his pale chest naked. He made the preemptive strike. “How’s your book coming along?”

“Good,” John replied vaguely. “Great.”

Sherlock snorted softly. _Great._

John kept his eyes on the horizon. “Do you ever feel like a fake?”

Sherlock looked out at the sea. “Yes. All the time.”

John turned his head and smiled at him. “That somehow makes me feel better.”

They sat in silence, Sherlock casting around for something to say. Since that night on the balcony, he had run out of words. John skipped a rock into the water.

“C’mon,” Sherlock finally said, standing up. “I’ll show you another one of my places.”

He held his hand out to John and helped pull him up. Sherlock threw on his t-shirt and led John along the base of the cliff, following the curve of the cove. Picking their way over slabs of rock that jutted into the water, Sherlock jumped down to a sandy stretch of beach hidden around the bend of the shoreline, waiting for John to catch up.

The beach was completely private, no houses or sign of civilization visible in any direction.

“I used to search for shells here,” Sherlock said. “I pretended I was on a desert island.”

John smiled again. “It's perfect.”

“I thought so.”

They sat in a strip of shade near the bottom of the cliff, the sand warm under their legs, the breeze playing with their hair.

Sherlock stole a glance at John and found him looking back at him.

“The other night…” Sherlock started, then trailed off, working up the courage to say more. “I wanted to.”

“To do what?” John asked softly.

“You know what. I think you wanted me to.”

John’s eyes flicked away, not denying it. “It’s not a good idea.”

“Because you’re with Molly?”

“What? No.”

There was a long silence.

“You’re angry.” Sherlock wished he hadn’t said anything.

“No, I’m not.” John placed his hand on Sherlock’s knee. “I’m really not.”

“Then you’re disgusted.”

“God, no -- don’t say that.”

“Then tell me that you don’t feel anything. That you don’t want something to happen.”

John tightened his grip on Sherlock’s knee. “I can’t tell you that.”

Sherlock lifted his face to him. “I want to kiss you. Just once, so I know.”

John said nothing, but moved his hand to the nape of Sherlock’s neck, holding him back, pulling him closer -- Sherlock couldn’t tell. He no longer cared. He took the chance, swiftly dipping his mouth to John’s, too eager, too forceful, a collision of teeth and lips and salty skin.

John’s fingers dug into his neck, easing him back, slowing him down. John loosened his hold, his hand sliding to cup Sherlock’s cheek. Sherlock licked his way into John’s mouth, wanting to taste him, curl him around his tongue, swallow him whole.

They finally drifted apart, breathing heavily, the susurration of the waves the only other sound. Emboldened, Sherlock slipped his hand between John’s legs, palming the bulge beneath the thin cloth of his swim trunks.

John grunted, covering Sherlock’s wrist with his hand, stilling him. “Sherlock.” His tone implied _don’t._

Sherlock withdrew his hand from John's crotch, feeling a mix of shame and satisfaction. John had responded to him, had kissed him back, but was cautioning him to stop. He was the bosses’ son, after all. His parents’ influence, their connections, were everything to a young writer. If John did anything to fall from their good graces, his career could be ruined.

Or maybe it was his age, his relative inexperience. Maybe he was nothing but a confused boy to John, tempting, but best kept at a distance.

John ran his thumb along Sherlock’s cheek, his expression conflicted. “We should go back.”

They rose slowly to their feet, working their way back across the rocks and up the steep stairs to the top of the hill.

Sherlock hung back for a minute, catching John’s wrist. “Are you sorry I kissed you?”

John looked at him, longing clouding his eyes, and shook his head. “No, not at all.”

Sherlock let John walk away, sensing a shift had occurred, that he had let fly a daring arrow and it had hit its mark. Time would tell the rest.


	3. Chapter 3

The next evening John joined them at the dinner table, pulling out a chair across from Sherlock. As he settled into his seat, the corner of Sherlock's mouth lifted slightly in triumph. John had returned, the arrow’s aim true. He poured wine into John's glass as platters of food were passed around.

Sherlock's mother was in fine form, telling a story Sherlock had heard dozens of times before but that was new and entertaining to their guests.

He tore off a crust of bread and nibbled at it between sips of wine. John caught his eye. He had been up in his room working diligently for the past day, revising a section of his novel. It must have gone well, because a warm foot stroked across Sherlock's toes, then traveled up higher to the inside of his ankle.

Sherlock lifted an eyebrow, then covered John’s bare foot with his own, sliding it up his leg, the hair on John's calf silkily coarse under the pad of his foot.

“There's a film on at the cinema tonight you might like,” Sherlock offered casually.

“Oh? What is it?”

“Lawrence of Arabia. It's a restored director’s cut. And it's in English.”

“Thank God, a language I understand.”

“It's long. Three and a half hours or so.”

“Are you going?”

“I might.”

John held his wine glass by the stem, massaging Sherlock's foot under the table. “I might go with you.”

Sherlock welcomed John's change of heart, the secret fondling, the flirting. He wanted it. Tonight, John would be seated next to him for hours in the theatre, their arms and knees touching in the dark, anticipation building. He knew what he wanted to happen next.

 

********************

It was late when they rode their bikes home, the lights mounted on their handlebars illuminating the path back to the villa. The epic sweep of the film, the stirring music, the rich colors had transported and enthralled them.

Sherlock felt giddy spinning through the warm night, racing John up the final hill to the villa, winning by a narrow margin. Laughing, they propped their bikes against the shed, their legs weak, their lungs burning.

“I almost had you,” John protested, out of breath.

“You’re too slow,” Sherlock taunted.

John snatched him by the hips, lightning fast, pulling him tight against his body. Pressed together, chests rising and falling, the game had suddenly changed. Sherlock tentatively put his hands on John's shoulders, gasping when John pushed him up against the wall of the shed, kissing him with a hot intensity.

It was glorious, melting under John’s mouth, pinned under the crush of his body.

John finally drew back, his forehead pressed against Sherlock’s. “If your parents found out…”

“They wouldn’t care,” Sherlock finished, dismissing John’s concern. He ran his hands up John’s chest, wanting his mouth again, coaxing him back.

The kisses went on and on, alternating between feathery and heated and languid.

“What changed your mind?” Sherlock finally whispered.

John held him close. “I'm happy here. The sun, the water…” he touched Sherlock’s bottom lip with a fingertip, “you.”

They kissed again, deeply.

“Let me sleep in your bed with you,” Sherlock breathed into John’s ear, bargaining for a way to let the night go on. “Just hold me, kiss me. We’ll keep our clothes on.”

John was willing to be swayed by his pleas and took Sherlock by the hand, leading him to his bedroom. They climbed under the covers, instantly wrapping around each other, kissing throats and jaws and collarbones.

Sherlock grasped John’s shoulders, grinding his cock against John’s thigh, precome spotting through his shorts. John slipped his hands beneath the fabric, kneading Sherlock’s buttocks, rutting against his hip.

“Don’t stop,” Sherlock groaned. He could come from just this friction against John’s body, this shared rhythm in the darkened room. He ground himself harder against the muscle of John’s thigh, climaxing with a soft cry against John’s neck. John held him, murmuring into his hair, guiding him to the end.

Sherlock closed his eyes, dimly aware of John stroking his back, of the hard tip of John’s erection nudging against his hip. Soon, he would take John’s cock into his mouth and lavish it with attention, suck and lick him to orgasm, swallow his bitter semen. For the moment, he breathed in John’s skin, never wanting to leave this bed, this embrace.

 

*******************

 _Johnjohnjohnjohn._ Sherlock's body pulsed with his name, every second without him an eternity. The morning stretched endlessly to lunch, a white void. He counted the minutes until John would join him by the pool for their afternoon routine.

He couldn't work, couldn't read, couldn't compose, his mind a swirling eddy, recalling skin and mouths and his early dawn departure as he crept back to his own room. He'd slept in late, waking thirsty and flushed, reluctant to move from bed until the day had passed and night freed them to be together again.

At lunch, Maria had said he looked pale. Was he feeling well? Sherlock brushed away her concern. “I'm just tired.”

He now reclined in the lounge chair by the pool, waiting, sunglasses on, shirt off, listless, the cicadas droning. John was late.

Maybe he was caught up in writing, or had gone to another town on an errand. Or maybe he regretted what had happened last night, changing his mind again in the harsh light of day. Maybe he was just one of John's conquests, another easy lay in a long string of meaningless summer affairs.

But it did mean something. It had to, the way John had held him, gazed at him.

The sun bit into Sherlock's skin, finally forcing him to retreat indoors. He took a cool shower and returned to bed, trying to sleep. Another hour passed, and still John had not appeared.

Sherlock padded into John's room. It was empty, innocent, no sign of last night’s encounter visible anywhere. It was hard to believe that he’d held John's cock his mouth just hours ago, had made him groan his name in the heat of passion.

He couldn't stay in the house anymore. He would ride to town, get a drink, stop by the book store, pretend not to look for John.

John’s seat was empty at dinner. Sherlock wanted to die, unable to ask his parents where John was. His voice would crack, giving him away. He picked at his food, miserable.

After dinner, his father was mixing a drink at the small bar just off the patio, catching Sherlock as he walked by.

“Everything okay?” his father asked.

“I'm fine. Too much sun, maybe.”

His father nodded, dropping an ice cube into a glass. “John should be back later tonight.”

Sherlock froze in place, trying to sound neutral. “Oh?”

“He was working on some award applications today. Deadlines are coming up. A nice cash prize would really give him the time needed to finish his manuscript.” He swirled his drink, took a sip, grimacing with approval. He held up his glass. “Want one? We can sit outside, talk a little.”

Sherlock wavered, then accepted the offer, glad for the distraction. They watched the sunset, nursing their drinks, talking about books and Cambridge and maybe taking the boat out on the weekend. He soon felt much calmer, and realized he missed spending time with his father.

The alcohol and day’s sun made his eyes heavy, and he said good night, going up to his room early. He fell into bed wearing just his shorts, closing his eyes, finally resting.

He woke to darkness, unsure of the time. _John._

He rubbed the sleep from his eyes, crossed the hall to the bathroom, glancing at John's door. Closed.

He returned to his room, then stepped onto the balcony to breathe in the sweet night air. He looked at John's door out of habit, his heart lurching at the unexpected yellow glow behind the thin curtains. Had he just come back? Or had the lamp been on all this time?

Sherlock walked toward the light as if in a trance. _Like a moth to a flame,_ he thought, giving himself over to instinct. He turned the doorknob, floating in like a ghost, a shadow.

John looked up from where he sat on the bed writing in a notepad. Sherlock moved toward him and John set the pen and paper to the side.

“It's so late. I wasn't sure if you would come,” John said softly.

Without speaking, Sherlock switched off the lamp, pushed down his shorts, and climbed naked into John's lap, covering his mouth with his own, his arms around his neck, his body saying _where were you I missed you I want you._

Together they unbuttoned John's shirt, slipped it from his shoulders, tugged away his shorts, the notepad sliding ignored to the floor. They clung together, John rolling Sherlock onto his back.

Sherlock coiled his legs around John's waist, canting his hips up, pressing against John's cock, making clear his desires. _Fuck me,_ he wanted to say, _use me, ruin me, I just need to know if this is who I am._

John understood the urgency in his body, the request pooled his eyes, the silent question on his parted lips. He held Sherlock's gaze. “Are you sure this is what you want?” he whispered.

“Please. Take me.” The words were strange, old-fashioned, but it was what he felt, the need to be consumed, overwhelmed, _taken._

John stroked his face, then leaned over to the bedside table, pulling a tube and square packet from the drawer.

“I'm okay. My health, I mean,” Sherlock added, watching John's fingers.

“Me too.”

John bent low and kissed him before sliding his hands to Sherlock's thighs, arranging his legs. John's shoulders were outlined against the window, silver moonlight illuminating the room. Sherlock bit his bottom lip, trying to relax, focusing on John's soothing caresses, opening to John's patient persistence.

The discomfort gradually diminished, and Sherlock reached for John, wanting him closer. As they shifted, John slid in deeper, causing Sherlock to catch his breath.

“Alright?” John brushed a curl from Sherlock's forehead.

Sherlock nodded wordlessly. He was more than alright; he was exactly where he wanted to be, with the person he wanted, finally answering a question that had long haunted him.

John's gentle restraint grew more insistent, his hips driving harder, faster, responding to Sherlock's cues. Sherlock clutched at John's back, his fingernails telegraphing _fill me fuck me flood me._

All was a haze of skin and bone, thrust and receive, bent knees and gripping hands, relentless cock and filthy moans, sweat and come. Sherlock reveled in it, arching his neck, disintegrating, John's name on his lips.

The dawn brought more sobering thoughts. He took an inventory of the room -- clothes on the floor, John next to him in bed, dried semen crusted on his chest, a soreness that would remind him of what they'd done every time he sat down.

John was awake, watching him. “Hey.”

“Hey.”

“You okay?”

“Fine.” He tried to piece together his thoughts, not sure what the flatness of his own reaction meant.

John removed his arm from Sherlock's shoulder. “Was it a mistake?”

Sherlock glanced at him, saw the apprehension in John's eyes, then the veil that fell into place, his expression remote.

Sherlock stalled, his gaze traveling down the length of John's body. They came to rest on John's flaccid penis. It was difficult to imagine it had been inside him last night, veined and rigid.

Somehow, the sight of his soft cock reminded Sherlock how human John was, that he was vulnerable and full of uncertainty, not the perfect golden god he’d created in his fantasies.

Sherlock placed his hand on John's stomach, feeling its tender warmth.

“No,” Sherlock said, meeting John's gaze again, “it wasn't a mistake. I’m glad we did it.”

John smiled, relief flooding his face. He looked younger as he burrowed into Sherlock's arms, his morning beard rough against Sherlock's cheek.

“I'm so glad, too.”


	4. Chapter 4

John was away for the afternoon, taking care of some errands in town. Sherlock filled the time by playing tennis with Molly in the morning, then swimming in the pool after lunch, stopping in the kitchen to grab a piece of fruit before heading to his room to read. He laid on his bed, his skin and hair still damp, trying not to think about how long it might be before John would return.

He held a large peach in his hand, blushing pink and yellow, the curved dimple in its firm flesh reminding him of John’s round arse. He brushed the fuzz of its fragrant skin against his lips, remembering the botanical term for plants and animals covered with a fine down: _pubescent._

_Plump pubescent peach._ The ripe flesh gave slightly under the pressure of his fingers. He pushed his thumbs into the stem end, curious to see if he could force the pit all the way through, thrilling to the juicy yield of the fruit as the pit slithered out, juice running down his hands.

A twisted thought entered his mind, watching his thumbs slide deeper into the fruit. He wondered what it would feel like… His belly warmed, wantonness threading through him.

He eased off his shorts, stroking his cock until he was hard. The hole in the peach gaped red and lush, glistening and eager. He gingerly pushed the head of his cock into the hole, his body tingling with perverseness. Pale orange juice ran down his shaft and into his pubic hair, dribbling onto his thighs. He had no idea how he would hide the evidence from Maria, explain the sticky mess on his sheets, but he couldn’t stop, didn’t want to stop.

He sank his cock deeper into the straining peach, thrusting slowly a few times, watching the skin of the fruit split open, two halves falling into his palms. He felt as ripe as the peach, his body about to burst, his flushed cock ready to spill its seed. He bit his lower lip, rubbing the wet halves over his cock, his breath hitching as he came inside the fruit. It was mesmerizing, scintillating, seeing his own milky come clinging to the peach.

It was mortifying when the balcony door opened and John slipped inside. There was nothing but silence as John crept nearer, his eyes adjusting to the dim light, his face flashing through a series of reactions as he pieced the events together.

“Is that -- did you just --?” he laughed, shaking his head in amazement as he perched at the end of the bed.

Caught _in flagrante_ with his mute partner, Sherlock’s cheeks blazed with humiliation. “I’m a freak, aren’t I?”

John moved closer to him on the bed. “If I’m turned on, does that mean I’m a freak too?” He took the come-filled peach half from Sherlock’s fingers, examining it for a moment, smiling slyly. “Peaches and cream…?” he lifted it to his mouth and took a bite.

“Don’t --” Sherlock cried out, ashamed, grabbing at John’s hand. “God, please stop.” He couldn’t bear to watch him do this, consume his sickness and depravity.

John grasped Sherlock’s wrist, holding him back. “I want to. I want to have you in me, have every atom of this summer on my tongue, in my body.”

Sherlock could feel hot tears stinging the corner of his eyes as he watched John eat the obscene peach, swallowing his come. When he finished, John leaned into him, kissing his mouth, his throat, lifting up his t-shirt to kiss his chest and nipples. John climbed between his legs, kissing his cock, nuzzling his balls, licking him, tart, sticky, musky, sweet.

Sherlock clutched at John’s hair, a few hot tears slipping from his eyes. No one else had ever known him this way, no one understood and accepted him as John did. He couldn't think about the summer ending, couldn't imagine the days and nights without him.

 

***********************

Rain tapped against the windows, the sky a leaden grey. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa half dozing, half watching an old black-and-white film on television. It was a sleepy Sunday, John working on his manuscript in a nearby chair, Sherlock's father reading a book in another.

His mother entered the room with a folded newspaper, her crossword puzzle partially completed. She swatted playfully at Sherlock's head with the paper.

“Make some room for your mother, you lazy thing.”

Sherlock lifted his head and she squeezed into the corner cushion, letting out a trill of pleased surprise when Sherlock laid his head back in her lap. She stroked his curls, watching the movie for a few minutes before turning back to her puzzle.

This was heaven, Sherlock thought. All the people he loved most dearly in the same cozy room, nowhere to rush off to, time slowed. He tried to imprint the moment in his mind, knowing that autumn was approaching and nothing would ever be the same again.

He shifted his gaze to John, his tanned legs crossed, papers balanced on his knee, brow furrowed. John felt his gaze on him and looked up, his face softening into a warm smile.

Sherlock smiled back, wrapping himself in their shared intimacy, the lulling murmur of the television, the scratch of his mother's pen, the dry whisper of a page turning in his father’s book.

He wanted it to last forever.

 

**************************

The full moon hung low in the sky, lighting the way to John's balcony door. Even if it had been pitch black, Sherlock would have easily found his way. He knew the few steps from his room to John's by heart, knew the shape and weight of the door handle in his palm, knew the rustle of the sheets as John lifted them for him to slide into bed.

They made love, Sherlock holding John's hips, entering him from behind, another in their many amorous variations. He caressed John's arse, so round and pale, a peach, and stroked his back. Sherlock loved the tightness around his cock, loved the soft huffing sounds they made as he thrusted, John's head dipping in abandon, his nape exposed.

Afterwards, they lay in a tangle of limbs, skin gleaming. John threaded their hands together, kissing the inside of Sherlock's wrist.

Time was slipping by too fast, Sherlock thought, sand sifting through their fingers as they tried to squeeze out every moment and slow it.

They gazed at each other in the moon’s glow, drinking in small details they wanted to remember forever.

“You look beautiful in the moonlight,” John murmured, brushing his fingertips over the dusting of freckles on Sherlock's cheekbones.

Sherlock smiled, recalling the stunning sight of John reclining by the pool or wading in the sea. “And you look beautiful in the sun.”

_“Il sole e la luna.”_ John trailed his fingers down Sherlock's arm, a melancholy in his voice. “Only two more weeks until I go back to New York.”

It was the first time they had spoken about it openly, the impending end of summer.

Sherlock rubbed his foot against John's. “Will you stay there?”

“I'm not sure. I've got to finish my book and keep working on some stories. If I don't get a grant, I'll have to apply for teaching jobs… I don’t know where I’ll end up.”

Sherlock hesitated. “Will you write to me, or call me, to let me know?”

“Of course.”

Sherlock took a risk, seeking an anchor for hope. “Maybe you could come back here for Christmas.”

“I'd love that. But my mother… I promised I'd visit her this year. She's in Seattle.”

“Oh.”

“I'd much rather come here.”

They stopped talking, lost in thought about the looming future and the fragile hours they had left.

“Listen,” John scooted closer. “I have an idea. I'm going to Rome the last three days before I fly back.” He squeezed Sherlock's leg. “Come with me.”

“Really?”

“You can show me the best museums and book shops. We’ll go out, eat like kings, get drunk.” He caressed Sherlock's thigh. “Fuck all night.”

Sherlock warmed to the idea, already knowing that he could convince his parents to pay his way, a last fling before starting university. They might even cover the cost of a fine hotel.

“I'll go,” he grinned, wrapping his arms around John.

They couldn't stop time, but they could try to prolong it, ignoring the vast expanse of ocean that would lay between them, the twists and turns of thousands choices and decisions that awaited them, the eventual drifting apart until they were bittersweet memories, eternally youthful faces in photographs that caused a pang of nostalgia for a long ago summer on the coast of Italy.

Reality intruded again, stabbing through Sherlock's brief buoyancy.

“I don't want you to leave,” he confessed against John's neck, fighting back a sudden sob.

John stroked his back, his voice rough with emotion. “I don't want to go, but I have to. We both have to.”

Sherlock clung to him, resisting when John pried him back.

“Hey.” John tipped up his chin. “We still have time. We have the rest of summer. We’ll have Rome.”

Sherlock knew John was right. They still had bike rides and morning swims, long lunches and lazy afternoons, beaches and ruins, deep kisses and rumpled sheets.

He lifted his eyes to John’s, remembering the first time he saw him from the window, John looking up at the villa, tilting his face to the sun.

“We have the rest of summer,” he echoed, smiling despite the ache he knew was waiting for him in autumn.


	5. Chapter 5

The books arrived at the villa the following summer, the package addressed to Sherlock’s parents. His mother cut open the tape on the box with a pair of sharp scissors, pulling out two hardcover books and handing one to Sherlock.

“Oh, how wonderful for John,” she said, admiring the cover. “We should call and congratulate him. What time is it there? Is it decent to telephone now?”

Sherlock walked away from his parents quibbling about the phone call and flipped through the front pages of the book, breathing in the scent of fresh ink. He paused on the dedication page, his heart skipping a beat.

 _To days of golden sun and nights of silver moonlight_  
_Sea and sky, wine and peaches_  
_Summer, Rome, and ruins_

The words landed with a shock of intimacy, stirring up emotions that Sherlock had hoped were healed over. John had not told him about this dedication. They had exchanged letters, a few short phone calls and postcards, promises to visit, all of which gradually faded over the span of a year. They had both been caught up in their work, Sherlock with university, John with finishing his novel and starting a new teaching job.

Life had gone on, impervious to parted lovers.

He could hear his parents chatting animatedly on the phone with John, apologizing for calling so early, offering their congratulations, inquiring about his job, inviting him to visit, wishing him well before handing the phone to Sherlock. His father beckoned him over.

Sherlock took the receiver from his father’s hand, watching his parents retreat to another room. He finally put the phone to his ear, said John’s name. How did it feel to finally be done with the book? Unreal. Did he like teaching? Parts of it. It’s good to hear your voice. You too.

There was a pause, a hiss of static. Sherlock closed his eyes, imagining John sitting on the edge of his bed, woken up by the call, hair mussed, shirtless. _I miss you, God I miss you._

The dedication -- it’s beautiful, Sherlock finally said. It’s for you, for our summer. I’ll never forget it. Neither will I.

Sherlock’s voice, tinged with grief, traveled far away. “I still think of you.”

“Sherlock…” Anguish rippled back across the line. “I wish I could be there right now.”

“I wish you could, too.”

There were other words Sherlock could say, all futile, so he didn’t let them leave his mouth. What good would it do? They were light-years apart, following different paths. Other small things were said, attempts to dilute the ache lingering between them, ending with platitudes.

Take care.

You too.

 

 

*************************

Time passed. Summers and Christmases went by, his contact with John dwindling, fading, put to rest. There were other lovers, other beginnings, private jokes and secret phrases, all eventually ending.

In August, Sherlock joined his parents at the villa for a month before returning to his graduate studies. At breakfast one morning, Sherlock’s father casually mentioned that John would be at a writer’s conference in London in the autumn.

“He’s doing quite well,” his father said, sliding the conference brochure across the breakfast table to Sherlock, then vanishing behind his newspaper again.

Sherlock looked at John’s photo, handsome, shirt collar open under his suit jacket, professorial with a touch of rakishness. He had written another well-received novel, several essays, a collection of short stories.

Sherlock took the brochure back to England with him. He would bring it out at times, gazing at John’s face, wondering who he shared his bed with.

The conference hotel wasn’t hard to find. Sherlock loitered in the lobby, waiting until John’s talk was over, hanging at the back of the room until John answered a few additional questions and autographed his latest book for an admirer.

Sherlock finally stood in front of him. “You’re in high demand.”

John furrowed his brow, then recognition struck, lighting up his face. “Sherlock! My God, I can’t believe it. How long has it been?”

“Six years.”

They embraced, their first touch since their farewell in Rome. “Look at you.” John held him by the shoulders, gazing at his face.

“Do you have plans?” Sherlock asked. “We could have a drink, catch up.”

John smiled. “This was my last obligation for the day. I’m all yours.”

They walked to a pub down the street filled with a mix of tourists and locals, found a booth in a corner, and ordered martinis.

“So,” John started. “How are you? Tell me everything.”

Sherlock filled him in on his parents, Maria, all of whom were well, then sketched out his advanced coursework in archaeological chemistry. “It’s a bit of a specialty,” he explained, already seeing the question on John’s face. “It’s applying analytical chemistry to artifacts -- pottery, bones, textiles -- to determine what vessels held, what people ate, patterns of trade... I’m boring you.”

John was smiling at him. “Not at all. I was just thinking about the ruins you showed me on your family’s property.”

Sherlock was pleased that he remembered. “That’s probably what sparked my interest.”

They talked more about Sherlock’s upcoming apprenticeship at a museum in Rome and his hopes for securing a permanent position there once he finished his doctoral degree. They then switched to John’s latest project and the buzz surrounding his name for a major literary prize. They ordered another round.

Sherlock ran his finger down the side of his glass. He’d noticed John’s hands were bare, no wedding ring. With the professional news out of the way, he ventured into the personal.

“Is there anyone special in your life?” He hated the way the question sounded, cheap and prying.

“No, not really.” John took a drink. “You?”

“No.”

John loosened his tie, then pulled the knot free, sliding it out of his collar. “I hate these things.” He wadded the tie into his pocket, undid his top shirt buttons. “I was engaged once.” He added this information almost as an afterthought. “It didn’t work out. She was a poet.”

“Two writers shouldn’t live together. My parents being the exception.”

“Writers are hell to live with,” John agreed. “Do you still write music?”

“I do, sometimes.”

“I'd love to hear you play again.”

They talked more, ordered a third round, not thinking to eat. They started to feel the gin, their tongues loosening.

John suddenly laughed, amused at his own thought. “I just realized you’re the same age I was when we were together.”

Sherlock had already thought of that, and smiled. “Do I still seem young to you?”

“No. You never did. You’re an old soul.”

Sherlock leaned forward conspiratorially, feeling more like a teenager than a wise being. “I still have something of yours.”

John peered at him across the wooden table, his knees nearly touching Sherlock’s. “You do? What is it?”

“That blue cotton shirt you always wore. I stole it from you before I left Rome.”

John grinned. “I thought I’d lost it.” He looked more carefully at Sherlock. “You still have it?”

Sherlock was briefly embarrassed to admit the truth, but he nodded his head. “I keep it to remember you.”

John held his gaze, his face turning serious. “That summer means more to me than you could possibly know.”

Time fell away in an instant, the desire as strong as it had been years ago, rekindled, burning now between them.

“Let’s have a drink at your hotel,” Sherlock suggested, his voice low.

“Just a drink?”

“That’s up to you.”

John pressed his leg against Sherlock’s, his hand sliding over the top of his knee. “Then I know what I want to have.”

They left the pub, vibrating with anticipation. Maybe it was a mistake to do this, to resurrect a dormant passion, to follow John to his room, to reach for each other once the door clicked shut.

Maybe it was foolish, crushed up against the wall, groping, wanting to touch everywhere, kissing breathlessly. Maybe it was a desperate bid to recreate the past, falling into bed, half undressed, John astride him. Maybe it was a hopeful grasp at the future, John’s familiar taste curled on his tongue, their bodies entwined. Or maybe it was just now, just enough, to be tangled together in the sheets again.

 

***************************

It was the week before Christmas, the breakfast table a feast of fruit and eggs and pastries, fresh squeezed juice and strong coffee, friends and neighbors who dropped by to greet them persuaded to stay for a bite to eat.

Sherlock drifted away from the crowd, climbing the stairs to his room. As he passed the window at the top of the landing, he heard the sound of tires on the tree-lined driveway. He glanced out, surprised to see a taxi. In a few moments, a familiar figure emerged from the car, white shirt, sunglasses.

_John._

A wave of unexpected joy flowed over Sherlock. After all the years of invitations to visit, John had finally come. They had made no promises in London, parting on open-ended terms, no strings attached. When John was awarded the literary prize he had been nominated for, Sherlock had sent a warm note of congratulations, no pleas, no pressure.

But Sherlock knew it was a generous award that covered a year’s expenses, the type of prize that would allow you to travel to Italy, rent a modest flat near a certain museum in Rome, and write every day while waiting for your lover to come home.

As Sherlock looked out the window, John glanced up, their eyes meeting. John took off his sunglasses, gazing at Sherlock, a smile breaking across his face. Sherlock smiled back, the world finally feeling whole, the promise of sun-soaked days and silvery nights with John causing his heart to soar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this summer escape. Go read CMBYN if you haven’t already, and support the film! I can’t wait to see it in January. 
> 
> Update: I’ve seen the film twice. Loved it!


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